Vows
by OuyangDan
Summary: My Asunder Writing Contest entry. Tristan meets his wife again after several years of estrangement. Enjoy!


He had told himself that it was the Blight that had driven them separate ways.

They had been children when they'd fled home, everything one another had ever loved. Green in the ways of the world, they'd been on the road less than a week when they fell upon their first darkspawn. Without hesitating even a heartbeat she'd unleashed magic from her fingers, freezing the creatures in place, buying them time.

She'd also left a trail.

It was easy enough for the templars to follow them after that.

Somehow they had managed to stay ahead of the Horde for most of the Blight. They encountered stragglers and the occasional single drifter, but never more than they could handle together. The things that had really made the Blight a hardship for them were less about the darkspawn and more their being itinerant and her magic. Every twist and turn of their mutual existence was affected by her connection to the Fade, whether it be the templars that pursued them when they were discovered, or the spirits and demons that she sometimes mentioned from her dreams. There was no questioning Eara's strength and ability, but at the back of his mind always lingered the possibility that she could lose that fight and he his life.

It hadn't been generous of him, and he knew that. Tristan carried it with him every minute they were together. Every day of their time as man and wife, since leaving the farmstead. Every time they touched, kissed, or held one another, he worried that his young wife would destroy him in a moment of loss of careful control.

She froze in her tracks like a halla being charged down when they surrounded her finally. She didn't recognize him. Why would she? They hadn't seen one another in years.

He couldn't remember how many years it had been. Somewhere along the way he'd lost count, somewhere in the training and the discipline and the honing of will and muscle memory. Her face had faded into a generic mist of almost any young woman.

During that time he'd often thought back to her, to when they had been younger. Happier. When he was lonely and would lie awake in his rack in the tiny cell allotted him he would sometimes think about her, about _them._

She looked different than he'd remembered her, in that way that the mind clung to things like the first girl you ever touched or smelled or tasted. She was thinner than he'd remembered, yet fuller in places in that way age had of fleshing out a woman. They'd been just children when the Blight had come, just children who were swept up in the tumult of love. They had been each others' world, and now she didn't know him. He'd filled out as well. Broader and stronger and even taller than his teenage self had been, hands and feet proportionate to his long arms and legs. He had muscles she'd never felt, scars she'd never seen.

She was one of those scars.

He remembered then he wore his helm and debated removing it. He wanted to see her, to face her, but part of him couldn't bring himself to do it. The visor provided him a barrier between himself and the guilt, the grief he felt at his own choices. The way those choices sometimes tore at him.

He thought back on the night he'd left, holding her, loving her, watching the way that her hair spread out over the straw of the hayloft they'd been allowed for shelter. Her magic, her healing, had earned them thanks from those along the bannorn, but her magic and her healing meant that there were stories for the Chantry to find them. He held her to him until she slept, tucked the blanket around her tenderly and kissed her brow. He pushed the straw, still warm from his presence, gently around her. There was no denying he loved her, but it was just never enough to endure.

He should have been stronger, he should have stood by her, held her, defended her. He should have honored the _vows_ they'd made to one another.

There were days he should not have picked fights with her, days that bickering didn't help them. Those days only aggravated her more, made her more unpredictable. An unpredictable mage was a dangerous mage, and for all that he loved her, her acerbic tongue and bronto's temper made him fear her.

Perhaps they'd been too hasty to get married. They'd found a place where no one had ever heard of them. Seventeen was far too young to think they had any idea what the world would be like for them. It had seemed the perfect age to choose a path that would commit him to a marriage with the Maker, though. Or so he'd thought.

With no note or indication of where he was going, he'd left the barn and had never looked back.

"Stand down, mage," one of his companions said with cold authority, expecting that she would obey. Tristan knew Eara far better than that, and his gut coiled knowing that she would fight harder than a cat dropped in a cold river.

Her green eyes flared with barely controlled anger at the sword and shield warrior beside him, and he could feel her pulling power – familiar, electric, the slightest hint of spearmint on his tongue. He knew her power as well as he knew her embrace. She dropped a foot back to brace herself for a desperate attack, hands twitching at her sides.

His will gathered almost instinctually, and the will of Ser Alec beside him was like a cold nudge. They'd been trailing her for some time, but despite his skills as a hunter, he hadn't known it was _her_. Ser Iain was fairly ruthless with apostates, and the man's posture read completely of his intent to kill and not capture.

"Eara stop," Tristan put his hands up in front of him. She flinched at the movement, expecting him to possibly cleanse or even smite her. Ser Iain lowered his sword, his helm turning towards the youngest of their group, cold grey eyes shining with incredulity.

"You know the apostate?" his voice was gravelly with the slightest hint of disgust. Ser Iain was of the mind that if it were truly a just world mages would be drown at birth.

Her wild green eyes locked on him, bewildered, and the moment's hesitation from them gave her enough time to react first. She shoved her hands forward with a blast of force that knocked them back, fanning them out in an arch as if they were nothing more than paper dolls caught in a breeze. She sprinted off towards a grove of trees.

Tristan's armour was lighter, the tasks of hunters being more about pursuit. He rolled to his stomach with some effort and was on his feet again before the others managed to move. Plate was a blessing and a curse, protecting them and hindering movement all at once.

Branches smacked into his helm as he gave chase. His skills as a hunter made it as easy to follow her as if she were a spooked ox rampaging a field of corn. The feeling of her magic in the air gave the templar part of him what he needed to narrow it down.

Tristan paused, holding his breath and listening. He didn't hear any movement as he stepped carefully, testing the ground with the toe of his boot before committing to the step, not wanting to spook her again. His heart pounded in his ears making it difficult to filter out the ambient sounds of the woods, then he heard a crash and a soft cry.

Following the sound carefully he watched Eara push herself up from the ground. She'd tripped over a root and was struggling with putting weight on her ankle.

"Not another step, templar," she growled at him. "Lightning and your armour will not mix well."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and pulled his helm off finally. "Eara, it's me."

It took her a few moments to realize him, her eyes widening slightly, her jaw dropping nearly imperceptibly. "You. Where have you … you're a sodding _templar_? Is that where …" She hopped back slightly, favoring her left leg. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

"Eara, I am so …"

"Don't," she spat. "If you apologize to me, I will set your face on fire." Using the tree for support she leaned down, one hand glowing a vibrant blue as she laid it upon her ankle.

"I could separate you from your mana, you know," he said quietly. "I should. I know what you are capable of."

"You don't know me," she glared at him, showing her eyeteeth as she canceled the magic, testing her foot and easing her weight onto it.

"I know enough," he said quietly, coolly. "The others will be along any moment-"

"Let me go," she met his gaze hard, her jaw set. "Tell them you lost me, Tristan, you owe me."

"What? Tell me you're joking." He took a cautious step closer to her, and she didn't back away this time.

"Not at all," her mouth set into a hard line. "I'm still your wife, Tristan. You took vows, to love me, to protect me. Or have you forgotten?"

He winced. "I have not forgotten my vows, Eara," he listened carefully for the others. Alec and Iain weren't close, if he was correct. He took another step to her, his face softening slightly, holding out a hand to her. "For what it's worth, I'm-"

"I said not to apologize." Hesitatingly, she took it, watching over his shoulder. "Tristan … I thought you were dead. It had been so long." She searched his face, her own conflicted. "I thought maybe you went looking for food and that maybe … no one could find a body. There were no reports." Her hand clasped his forearm as she still looked around, skittish. "This? This I hadn't expected."

"I was young. I was scared. I was tired of running. I needed some sort of … I don't know." He'd forgotten how pretty she was, never the obvious kind, but more subtle in the cut of her jaw and the soft lines around her eyes from the rare smiles that would light up her face. "Purpose."

"So killing mages is your purpose now?"

"No. That's not what I do. Not if it can be avoided." So much he wanted to pull her to him, hold her, feel the warmth of her against him again.

"I have to go, your friends didn't seem to share your sentiments. I … it's good to know you are alive." She backed away from him then, still looking around cautiously. "I guess that's that, then. At least I know now. I can move on."

"Move on?" It almost hurt. Almost. They had moved on entirely different paths, by his choice, admittedly. He watched her back away from him, and thought about his vows.

"From you, from us. I never forgot my vows. Take care of yourself, Tristan. Maker watch over you," she turned and began to jog off.

It didn't take long for him to gather the will he needed. To aim it where it needed to be, to focus it. It took less than the space of the thought of it to sever her from the Fade and to knock her to the ground, the blast of his smite knocking her unconscious.

He crossed the distance between them, crouching, removing a glove, and holding two fingers to the side of her throat. Her pulse was strong, and he'd expected nothing less. He scooped her up, slinging her over his shoulder before retracing his steps back towards the others.

He hadn't forgotten his vows.


End file.
